Sarai has moved from cotton and silk kaftans to high-necked, flowing gowns of velvet. Her air is regal as she surveys her final class of the first semester. “During this course we have looked at a sample of women mentioned in the Hebrew scriptures. We have noted that women in scripture are systematically denied voice. Our reading has been a reading of gaps and silences, a feminist reading under girded by a hermeneutic of suspicion. Only by so reading can we find understanding of what it may have been like for women in their circumstances. But the exercise has more importance than merely seeking to understand how it was for ancient women. Our material comes from what we term Holy Scripture and as such has shaped concepts of right and wrong for centuries. Most Hebrew scripture was written through a patriarchal lens. Marriage in ancient Israel was not a partnership of equals and thus these scriptures reinforce the ancient cultural perceptions. Nowhere is this portrayed more vividly than in the 14 chapters known to us as Hosea. Ms Finley, what can you tell us about Hosea?”
“He was a minor prophet who lived in the eighth century BCE,” obliges Rochelle, ever reliable with pre-lecture required reading. “It was a time of political unrest just before the Northern Kingdom fell to the Assyrians in 721 BCE.”
“Exemplary, Ms Finley. Ms Wakelin, you may be able to share with us the general theme of the minor prophets?”
The Goth stirs herself to a look of half-interest. “They urged repentance and prophesied doom and gloom.”
Sarai awards a brief nod and continues. “Though written in the typical punitive genre of the Minor Prophets, Hosea has an individual slant. It suggests that God/Yahweh has the possession and control over Israel that a husband has over a wife. Hosea implies that the male nurtures the female and females cannot be trusted. But it gets worse, much worse. It is a text of violence against women and children.”
Philippa raises her hand.
“You have a comment, Ms Tombs?
“I don’t see how you can say that. Hosea is illustrating the love of God, likening God to a loving husband who takes his wife back after she has sinned.” Philippa fails to keep the anger out of her voice.
“Let me explain, Ms Tombs. The voice of the narrator is fused with the voice of God and his prophet, seducing the unwary. Hosea’s underlying concern is to contrast Yahweh’s positive male fidelity with Israel’s negative female harlotry. In so doing he introduces themes of degradation to females and denies their positive role in reproduction and nurturance. God’s image as husband in this writing is that of abusive husband.” Sarai surveys the faces turned toward her. “Any further comments?”
“Your opinions are only that, opinions,” flashes Philippa.
“If you read the supporting texts, Ms Tombs, you would see many fine minds share these opinions you suggest are mine.”
Hana raises a hand. “Gomer behaved disgracefully. Are you condoning prostitution?”
“As feminist scholars are quick to point out, Hosea chose Gomer to wife because she was a harlot. She kept nothing hidden from him.” Sarai moves behind the large desk. “In the first chapter of the book of Hosea his wife Gomer conceived and bore a daughter.” Sarai reaches under the desk and pulls out a life-sized baby doll wearing a pink gown. She cradles it in her arms and talks to it. “My lovely girl, flesh of my flesh, my joy, my delight, each finger perfect, each toe a thing of beauty.” She kisses the toes.
“It looks so damn real,” whispers Kat. Jen is gazing enchanted.
“Hosea’s God demands the baby be named Not Pitied.” Sarai pauses, watching the confused expressions as this sinks in. “When Gomer had weaned Not Pitied, she conceived and bore a son.” Sarai gently places the pink-clad baby on top of the desk and draws out another. She holds the doll dressed in blue level with her eyes and declares, “A son, my husband’s desire, great rejoicing for the whole family.” She cuddles the babe against her shoulder and gently pats his back before rocking him in her arms and continuing the story. “Hosea’s God demands this child be cursed with the name Not My People.” The students look uncomfortable. “The cult of Yahweh did not meet all spiritual needs.”
“Cult!” The word spits from Philippa’s lips as involuntary as ejecting a mouthful of poison.
“You will remember, Ms Tombs, there was a time when the Ashera was worshipped in the temple and represented beyond by poles and green trees. The women baked cakes for the Queen of Heaven and honoured her new moon Sabbats. A god who delights in blood offerings is unlikely to win the hearts and souls of those women.”
Philippa folds her arms, knocking a pen to the floor.
“Toward the end of the book ascribed to the prophet Hosea are these words, I am the lord your God who brought you from the land of Egypt, you know no God but me. Yahweh speaks verses extolling himself and making threats to those who choose other Gods, finishing with, Samaria shall bear her guilt because she has rebelled against her God; they shall fall by the sword, their little ones shall be dashed to pieces.” Sarai spins on her heel and flings the baby in blue against the block wall. It falls with a sickening thud. Before the class can recover the pink baby is held high and dashed to the floor.
For a long minute there is not a sound in the room. “Beware of believing every word of the Bible as sacred and inerrant. Critique everything you read.” No one flexes as much as a finger-joint. “Despite the violence Hosea is so fond of describing,” Sarai continues, in a change of tone that permits the class to relax, “sprinkled sparsely, but rich in feminine imagery, is a vision of peace and healing, a radical revisioning of the divine in its relationship to the world. Perhaps the abused wife was able to influence her husband’s writings. The concluding words of Hosea’s scroll speak of a God who is like an evergreen cypress, and concludes with those who are wise understand these things. I suggest to you that this is a coded message.”
Her eyes glide the rows in a leisurely fashion but pause long enough to prompt Darlene to turn pink. Jen and Kat simultaneously find a need to check their notes.
“I wish you well in your exams,” concludes Sarai. “As you prepare, consider: whose story is told, whose agenda is fulfilled, which characters are disapproved of by the narrator. Bear in mind: who speaks? Who sees? Who acts? Whose interest is being served?”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen and Kat trail behind a group of their classmates. It is Darlene’s idea that they have an end-of-term coffee at the Alibi. Sarai emerges from her office as they troop by. “Jen and Kat, just a minute, please.”
The others have reached the lift. Jen calls, “We’ll see you there.”
Jen imagines Steve chanting brown nose or worse. “What do you want?” asks Kat, with typical directness. Sarai’s abruptness of Tuesday is apparently forgotten. Her tone is convivial. “Pauline asked me to give you these.” She extends two cards. “They are invitations to her Yule celebration.”
“Yule?” queries Jen, “In June?”
“Yes, it's one of the Wiccan Sabbats. In the southern hemisphere the Wheel of the Pagan Year is six months behind. Or ahead,” grins Sarai. “Pauline loves to celebrate the Sabbats and as you unexpectedly dropped in on her last one she thought you may like to be involved. Yule pays homage to the longest night and coming light but basically it is a ‘bring and share’ mid-winter Christmas dinner. It’s not until the twenty-first. Her phone number is on the card. Now, hurry along or you will miss out on your coffee.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Another semester gone — time is running out. Getting tense won’t help. Relax, Sarai, unwind. She inhales and exhales, three long breaths, wriggles comfortably into her office chair, takes a fresh sheet of paper, unscrews the gold-trimmed cap on her purple pen, and writes in round cursive script.
A Psalm of Sarai — Gomer’s Revelation
Why should I be whore to any god?
They gave their wool and their flax and their wine.
They took their pleasure from me and left me broken …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat is glad she is not a proper student. Exams — who wants them? Not me, that’s for sure, she muses. For me it’s back to normal life for five weeks. Normal? Life won’t be normal for long. Make the most of it. That bastard will pay, but it won’t be enough. Kat had been surprised by how readily Arthur had agreed to pay maintenance for silence. He must be married. He is too good-looking not to be. No one has asked about the wedding ring she found. It could be useful.
Kat had demanded a signed statement. Arthur agreed and posted it care of the motel. Not that it was exactly legal, he had simply signed Arthur, like he was a king or something, but the promised ‘good faith’ $500 did arrive in her bank account. But, babies cost big time and she will have to give up working in a few months. You are going to need money, girl.
Grim Gordon has come and gone. Gordon is thin, tall, and upright, a man of principle. As he sees it, it’s not his fault he has never had a partner. He hates what he is doing and hates her for doing it with him. Both are pleased when the brief encounter is over. Betting Barrie is more enjoyable: he only visits when he has had a win on the horses. He is a happy albeit infrequent client.
As usual on a Monday Amber is waiting for an off-duty cop. She has three regulars from the constabulary. They know about each other. It’s their insurance; safety in numbers. No one will snitch. All are married. It’s a tough job, they say, dangerous, we need our relaxation. Today it is Harvey, a weedy guy for a cop. One of those types who is going bald and tries to hide it by combing long strands from the side over the top of his head. She can’t bear that in a bloke, smacks of intent to deceive. Harvey thinks handcuffs are very daring. When he first produced them he wasn’t sure how they were used in bed. Kat had no intention of being part of that game. Well, not with him. Harvey accepted her guidance in the matter. Now she regularly cuffs him to the rods that secure the seventies headboard to the queen-sized bed, and, pro that she is, doesn’t even smile.
It’s not often two cops come on the same day but today Howie also has spare time. You would think there was no crime in this city! Perhaps that’s why — the bloody cops get too much time off. She can’t decide which she dislikes the most. Big, blustering Howie would have been a bully as a kid. Probably still is. She can just see him revelling in bossing his subordinates, ticking them off like school kids in the principal’s office. When it comes to sex Howie knows what he wants and takes it with no finesse.
By contrast Brice, the third one, acts like a gentleman. He is a chief inspector, smooth and polite. She sees how he would inspire false confidence, feign understanding to damn a compromised petty crim. Twice this year he has made appointments and failed to keep them. No cancellation message, no apology, no concern that she is losing money. A promise means nothing to him. Amber doesn’t trust him one inch. If he fails to show again that’s it. He has been warned.
Thank God her working day will end with Ben. He isn’t cheating on a wife. Since Ben suggested she go to uni she’s had a soft spot for him. He’s a nice guy, shame he can’t find a nice woman. Good husband material, she surmises. It’s been a while since Ben has paid her a visit. Actually, she realises with surprise, she is missing him. She checks her appointment book: over a month, last time he seemed concerned for her welfare. Strange really, clients are consumed by their own needs. But, yes, it comes back to her with a physical shudder, she cancelled Ben, because of The Incident. She’d had to inform a few clients she had the flu. Her hand moves to the scar on her arm, her fingers trace the A and jerk away. Amber urges her mind forward. She’d told Ben she was really enjoying Sarai’s lectures. He’d said, Well why do this? All very well for him. His daddy is a rich businessman.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~